Avon smothered a yawn in his scented handkerchief, and proceeded in his leisurely fashion to the card-room, where he remained for perhaps an hour. Then he sought out his hostess, complimented her in his soft voice, and departed.
Léon was half asleep downstairs, but he opened his eyes as the Duke’s footfall sounded, and jumped up. He assisted the Duke into his cloak, handed him his hat and gloves, and asked whether he was to summon a chair. But the Duke elected to walk, and further commanded his page to keep step beside him. They walked slowly down the street and had turned the corner before Avon spoke.
“My child, when the Comte de Saint-Vire questioned you this evening, what did you answer?”
Léon gave a little skip of surprise, looking up at his master in frank wonderment.
“How did you know, Monseigneur? I did not see you.”
“Possibly not. No doubt you will answer my question in your own good time.”
“Pardon, Monseigneur! M. le Comte asked me where I was born. I do not understand why he should wish to know.”
“I suppose you told him so?”
“Yes, Monseigneur,” nodded Léon. He looked up, twinkling. “I thought you would not be angered if I spoke just a little rudely to that one?” He saw Avon’s lips curl, and flushed in triumph at having made the Duke smile.
“Very shrewd,” remarked Justin. “And then you said—?”
“I said I did not know, Monseigneur. It is true.”
“A comforting thought.”
“Yes,” agreed the page. “I do not like to tell lies.”
“No?” For once Avon seemed disposed to encourage his page to talk. Nothing loth, Léon continued.
“No, Monseigneur. Of course it is sometimes necessary, but I do not like it. Once or twice I lied to Jean because I was afraid to tell the truth, but that is cowardly, n’est-ce pas? I think it is not so wicked to lie to your enemy, but one could not lie—to a friend, or—or to somebody one loved. That would be a black sin, would it not?”
“As I cannot remember ever having loved anyone, I am hardly fitted to answer that question, my child.”
Léon considered him gravely.
“No one?” he asked. “Me, I do not love often, but when I do it is forever. I loved my mother, and the Curé, and—and I love you, Monseigneur.”
“I beg your pardon?” Avon was a little startled.
“I—I only said that I loved you, Monseigneur.”
“I thought that I could not have heard aright. It is, of course, gratifying, but I do not think you have chosen too wisely. I am sure they will seek to reform you, below-stairs.”
The big eyes flashed.
“They dare not!”
The quizzing-glass was raised.
“Indeed? Are you so formidable?”
“I have a very bad temper, Monseigneur.”
“And you use it in my defence. It is most amusing. Do you fly out upon—my valet, for instance?”
Léon gave a tiny sniff of scorn.
“Oh, he is just a fool, Monseigneur!”
“Lamentably a fool. I have often remarked it.”
They had come to Avon’s hôtel by now, and the waiting lackeys held the door for them to pass through. In the hall Avon paused, while Léon stood expectantly before him.
“You may bring wine to the library,” said the Duke, and went in.
When Léon appeared with a heavy silver tray Justin was seated by the fire, his feet upon the hearth. Beneath drooping lids he watched his page pour out a glass of burgundy. Léon brought it to him.
“Thank you.” Avon smiled at Léon’s evident surprise at the unusual courtesy. “No doubt you imagined that I was sadly lacking in manners? You may sit down. At my feet.”
Léon promptly curled up on the rug, cross-legged, and sat looking at the Duke, rather bewildered, but palpably pleased.
Justin drank a little wine, still watching the page, and then set the glass down on a small table at his elbow.
“You find me a trifle unexpected? I desire to be entertained.”
Léon looked at him seriously.
“What shall I do, Monseigneur?”
“You may talk,” Avon said. “Your youthful views on life are most amusing. Pray continue.”
Léon laughed suddenly.
“I do not know what to say, Monseigneur! I do not think I have anything interesting to talk about. I chatter and chatter, they tell me, but it is all nothing. Madame Dubois lets me talk, but Walker—ah, Walker is dull and strict!”
“Who is Madame—er—Dubois?”
Léon opened his eyes very wide.
“But she is your housekeeper, Monseigneur!”
“Really? I have never seen her. Is she a stimulating auditor?”
“Monseigneur?”
“No matter. Tell me of your life in Anjou. Before Jean brought you to Paris.”
Léon settled himself more comfortably, and as the arm of Avon’s chair was near enough to be an inviting prop, he leaned against it, unaware that he was committing a breach of etiquette. Avon said nothing, but picked up his glass and started to sip the wine it held.
“In Anjou—it is all so very far away,” sighed Léon. “We lived in a little house, and there were horses and cows and pigs—oh, many animals! And my father did not like it that I would not touch the cows or the pigs. They were dirty, you understand. Maman said I should not work on the farm, but she made me care for the fowls. I did not mind that so much. There was one speckled hen, all mine. Jean stole it to tease me. Jean is like that, you know. Then there was M. le Curé. He lived a little way from our farm, in a tiny house next the church. And he was very, very good and kind. He gave me sweetmeats when I learned my lessons well, and sometimes he told stories—oh, wonderful stories of fairies and knights! I was only a baby then, but I can still remember them. And my father said it was not seemly that a priest should tell of things that are not, like fairies. I was not very fond of my father. He was like Jean, a little … Then there was the plague, and people died. I went to the Curé,
